


if only in my dreams.

by littlemarionette (orphan_account)



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4943722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/littlemarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My family doesn't do happy endings. We do sad endings or frustrating endings or no endings at all."<br/> - Hope Solo.</p>
<p>
  <i>"I want to make you believe in happy endings again, because you make me believe in them too."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

_She hasn’t always been afraid of thunderstorms._

_From an ocean away, the connection muddled by the miles between them, his familiar voice is what slows her heartbeat. She stares out her window at the turbulent skies, the sailboats in the port rocking back and forth on the sea, the rain coming down in sheets. The call won’t hold much longer with the weather like this._

_“Kelley? Did you hear me?”_

_The urgency in his voice is clear even though she’s continents away, even though there are hundreds upon hundreds of miles separating them, and she allows herself for a moment to picture him — his chiseled jaw set firm, his cheekbones strong, those hazel eyes that seemed more hollow each time she saw him, his arms tanned, lips chapped, face windburned. Dressed in his fatigues, wiping sweat from his brow every few words, the wedding band on his left ring finger dulled and lacking shine after months in the desert._

_“Kell?”_

_“No. Sorry. I missed that. What did you say?”_

_She lets the curtains in her living room fall, closing her off from the damp early-evening weather of Boston in October as well as the rest of the world outside — closing her off from a world other than the one inside her home, where he is and where she is and where they are both safe. It’s dimly lit inside, only a few candles burning in the living room while their collie, Agnes, rests lazily across the couch and a pot of chili stews on the burner in the kitchen._

_“I asked how the weather is there.”_

_For a moment, she stares again at the front door that they had spontaneously painted red the day they’d moved in, just a couple of kids who had no idea what was ahead. Outside, the wind howls and the rain pelts away at the windows. She wonders what he’d do to stand in the rain instead of the heat and dust of the Middle East if for only a minute. He’s always loved stormy days._

_“It’s fine,” she replies, absentmindedly stroking Agnes’s head as she settles onto the couch with her feet curled up beneath her. “Raining,” she adds so he doesn’t think she’s being too short or distracted with her answers. “And lightning and thundering. You’d love it.”_

_He laughs, that magical, rumbling laughter she’s so loved since they were young, and her heart lurches. He sounds closer than an ocean away. “I saw a bad storm headed towards Boston on the radar a few hours ago.”_

_“You had spare time and you spent it checking the radar for Boston?” She raises her eyebrows amusedly and glances to where Agnes has rested her paws across her thighs._

_Again, she can almost see his dimples as he laughs. “I’m just looking out for my family,” he responds, and there’s some static over the line that covers the silence. “How are the kids?”_

_Kelley looks from the toys scattered across the floor to the kitchen table where three small tow-headed babies are gathered, two working on schoolwork and the other one coloring a picture for Daddy. “They’re good. John went all of today without any accidents, according to Alyssa. Everett got the citizenship award in class for the third week straight. We’re going to the pumpkin patch this weekend if they all get their chore charts filled up by Friday.” She pauses and glances to the middle — the tan-skinned, blonde-haired, fierce little girl who is so much like her father. “Oh! And Kate started piano on Tuesday. She can already play Hot Cross Buns.”_

_“Wow. I can’t believe how much I’m missing,” he says, and though she’s not meant to, she can hear the twinge of guilt in his voice. “How are you?”_

_She sighs, wanting nothing more than to pull the cream-colored knit blanket off the back of the leather couch, wrap herself up in it, pour a glass of white wine, and study her case files for the big trial she has coming up. Instead, she exhales again and reminds herself that he’ll be home soon, and things will get easier. “I’m good, honestly. Busy, between work and the kids, but I’m happy.”_

_“Remember not to overdo it, Kell. Take some time for yourself every now and then. Get a pedicure, or go see a movie with your friends, or go out for sushi. Autumn in Boston is beautiful. Enjoy it.”_

_“I’m enjoying it. I walk from the apartment to work every day that it’s not raining. We walk to dinner on the harbor on Friday nights just like we do when you’re home, and Everett has soccer on Saturday mornings. We eat breakfast on the deck when the weather is nice. It’s just, I have that big case with Mayo coming up so I’ve been busier than usual. And the house is a wreck. But I’m fine. It’s good.”_

_It’s his turn to sigh. “Don’t you think we’re outgrowing the apartment, Kell? There are four people living in a two-bedroom apartment.”_

_“Five when you’re home,” she reminds him importantly. “And it’s not bad. Kate and Everett like having bunk beds. They think it’s like permanently being at camp. And John sleeps with me most nights. We like cuddling.”_

_“You’re never going to get enough sleep with John in bed. He’s a kicker.”_

_“We like it.” Her voice is firm, firmer than she means for it to be, and she sighs when she catches herself sounding like a mom again. “Sorry. It’s just…you know how I feel about this place, Luke. I love it here. Wake up every morning to the Boston Harbor right outside my eighth-floor window? Breakfast on the deck watching ships and sailboats come in? It’s ours. We bought it seven years ago when we were both just babies ourselves, young and excited about life and ready to take on the world. A lot’s changed since then, but this hasn’t. We haven’t. We’re still here, Luke, you and me and the kids— and I want to keep it that way. This is home.”_

_There’s another pause, only this one isn’t filled with static. She can hear the movements on his end of the line, probably some of his Army buddies heckling him about how long he spends on the phone when they have even a few minutes off._

_“You’re doing a good job, Kelley. I want you to know that. It takes a special woman to do all that you do, and we’re lucky to have you.” He ignores all the ooh-ing and ahh-ing from his guys in the background. “And I know how you feel about our place. It’s just, five people and a dog can get to be a lot in such a small space. They have some three-bedrooms up a few floors, same view and everything, and I think maybe you should look into them.”_

_“I know.” There’s a hint of sorrow mixed in with her almost-subconscious reply, though, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him. “I’ll start looking tomorrow if you promise we can paint that door red too.”_

_Again, Luke laughs. “Anything for one of my two best girls.”_

_Outside, the wind picks up and the lights flicker ominously. She knows the call is going to drop soon. “Luke? I’ve got to get dinner on the table before we lose power. This storm is picking up, and I want to get the kids bathed and in bed before it really hits.”_

_“I’ll let you go, then,” he answers. “Be careful, okay? I know you feel about storms.”_

_She almost scoffs. He’s halfway around the world fighting radical terrorists who hate him and would love to have American blood on their hands, and he’s telling HER to be careful. “I’ll be fine. You be careful. Remember that you have a lot to come home to.” She turns to the kitchen and calls out to the tiny humans at the table. “Daddy has to go soon; come tell him you love him!”_

_All at once, the kids jump off the bench their father made to match the dining table and run straight at her, jumping for the phone and begging to talk first._

_“I love you more than the stars,” he says earnestly, and her pulse quickens again._

_“Don’t get killed, Luke O’Hara. We need you to come back to us in…” (She glances at the countdown they’ve made on the chalkboard on the kitchen island.) “…forty-one days.”_

_And with that, she hands the phone off to Everett, the eldest, and casts one more worried glance out the windows before taking the chili off the burner._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_The harsh mid-afternoon sun beats down on Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan._

_Dr. Hope Solo squints against the light and shields her eyes as she stares out the horizon for any sign of her incoming patients, ignoring the dust devils being picked up by the slight breeze._

_It’s suffocating out here. Any relief from the heat that the wind could bring is minimized by the clouds of dirt that come with it, and she often ends her day covered in sweat and dust that has become mud on her skin. Her feet always ache, there’s always a fine layer of gritty dirt on her face, and she can taste the dust on her teeth when she runs her tongue over them. Her job is a dirty one. She performs ugly operations on soldiers day in and day out, often working in less-than-optimal conditions because there’s a shortage of blood or there was a roadside bomb or they’re short-staffed again because someone couldn’t take it anymore and went home. The operating rooms are often crude and hastily executed, and rarely is there time to make the life-saving procedures intricate or pretty or less harsh like she would have done had she stayed back at Johns Hopkins._

_After two tours of duty out here, though, Hope can honestly say that she loves it. Not the dirt or the heat or the feeling of constantly needing a shower, but the saving lives. The way she has to think quickly or risk losing another soldier. The innovative way they have all been trained to do their jobs now, sometimes without what they’d use if they were working stateside. The community this has built for her, the people she works with as well as those she works for — she loves it. There’s nothing more satisfying than returning someone to what he or she wants to do, and for the people out here, that’s serve their country. She’s inspired daily by the people she’s saved, by those who risk their lives so she can have hers._

_She also really, really hates her job sometimes. She hates watching someone die. She hates when someone comes to her table a lost cause, and while she normally takes the challenge of a lost cause, she’s come to realize that a “lost cause” in Afghanistan means something completely different than it does in Boston. She hates her job sometimes._

_Today is one of those days._

_The choppers land a few moments later after Hope sees the clouds of dust they bring with them, and she knows straightaway that things are not good. Three of them land at once, and she jogs toward the landing pad with the rest of her team, yelling out instructions as she goes. They triage the men, taking the ones who can be saved to the OR immediately, and send the ones who can walk and seem to be okay to get checked out by their nursing staff. Ten minutes later, there’s only one guy who’s a black tag. Hope hates playing this, this game of who lives and who dies. She hates playing God. So before she runs off to operate on someone else, on someone who was probably this guy’s buddy, she pauses at his stretcher and smiles gently._

_“How ya holdin’ up?” she asks kindly, squeezing his hand carefully._

_His face may be the only part of his body left unscathed. Long ago, this would have bothered Hope, made her sick even, seeing a man so close to death right before. The sight is grotesque. She isn’t sure what happened — chopper crash, RPG, bomb — but she knows that pieces of his body that should be inside are on the out, and there’s so much blood not even God himself could isolate the source of it all. There’s absolutely no way she could have saved him, though she would have loved to try._

_“I”m fine,” he manages with a weak smile. She looks longer into his eyes, a light amber color that holds fear, pain, and kindness. “Just go check on my buddies.”_

_She pats his hand again and clasps it in hers so he knows that she’s sorry. “I can get you something for the pain.”_

_Instead, he shakes his head and struggles to motion to his boot. Hope glances from his eyes to his legs, which are all but severed, and the worn combat boots at the ends. Her hand hovers over the boot for a second or two before he gasps out that she’s right, and she pulls off the Army-issued boot as gently as she can. Of course, he’s in shock now and probably doesn’t feel much, but she’s not jaded after this long on the job. It still makes her cry every night. She turns the shoe upside down, and a creased photograph flutters to the ground._

_“This?” she asks, holding up a picture of three small, blonde children — two boys and a girl in the middle — and a beautiful woman who shares his captivating eyes. He nods weakly, with all the strength he can muster, and she holds it up for him to see, knowing he can’t do so on his own. “This your family?”_

_Though he is incapacitated, a look of pride crosses his face as he smiles despite the blood gathering at the corners of his mouth._

_“They’re beautiful. Is this your wife?”_

_“My sister,” he all but gasps. “She’s a saint.”_

_Hope smiles back at him, pressing the photograph into his hands. “Where’s your wife? You don’t wear that wedding band for nothing.” She’s found that this is the best way for them to go out, distracted and talking about what they love. She’s talked about whiskey, skydiving, porn, steak, and fishing with soldiers on their deathbeds before. A family is a welcome change until she remembers that these children are going to be left fatherless._

_Sadness floods his eyes. “She’s gone too. A car accident before the youngest was born. She died so he could live.” And then there’s only peace. “I get to see her again real soon.”_

_She nods the best she can, knowing that she needs to let go of him and go tend to the patients who have a chance at making it, who have a shot at life. Something keeps her by his side, though. She can’t leave him alone to die. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you.”_

_He shakes his head. “I did it for my country. I did it for them.” And with that, he coughs violently. “I don’t want to leave them,” he finally admits, tears gathering where the pain stood._

_“They’re so, so incredibly proud of you,” she says soothingly, smoothing his blonde hair. “Their daddy is a real life hero.”_

_And she stays like that, holding the dying man’s hand and listening to him weep, until he takes his shaky last breath and spins into eternity without pain._

_Sometimes, Hope really hates her job._


	2. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is not what it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but wait…what you thought happened last chapter…is that really what happened? who said that was Luke? who said that Luke was Kelley’s brother? stay tuned.

Late October falls on Boston, and life begins all over again.

The leaves on the trees around Charlestown have turned deep shades of yellow and orange and crimson. Each afternoon the sky is a special shade of golden-blue, and every evening it gets dark sooner. The streets have been decorated for Halloween with spiders and pumpkins and witches and cobwebs. Mornings have gone from cool to cold, and schoolchildren are seen walking to the bus stop in their coats and hats. Knowing that this all will be gone soon, parents are soaking up the longer days, for each lost minute of sunlight brings them closer to a long New England winter.

Inside the seventh floor waterview condo at 21 Pier 7, pumpkin pie is set on the cooling rack near the stove, out of the reach of small hands as well as Agnes’ paws. The curtains are drawn back to let the mid-afternoon autumn light flood in and bathe the white walls, and — much to the middle’s protests — a Bing Crosby Christmas record plays on vinyl. A chai candle is burning in the center of the dining table, where three young children and their elder counterpart are hard at work. With mugs of hot cocoa nearby to warm their bodies after a trip to the market on the pier for their groceries, they snack on gala apples and homemade cookie butter. Out of tune, the eldest — the one in charge — absentmindedly sings along to Jingle Bells as she attempts to pull thread through the eye of her needle.

A hint of annoyance flickers in the six-year-old’s voice as he holds up part of his unfinished Halloween costume. “It has to be like the picture I showed you, Mom. That doesn’t look like the picture I showed you.”

“It will,” she replies without a drop of worry. “You’ll look just like Peter Pan, buddy. Promise.”

“I don’t want to be Peter Pan.”

She glances his way as she wets the tip of the thread with her lips and can sense his meltdown coming on already. “Ev, honey, you said last week that you wanted to be Peter Pan for Halloween.”

“I changed my mind. Jack and Matthew and Patrick and Robert said Peter Pan is for babies.”

From where she’s coloring a picture for her grandmother, five-year-old Kate looks appalled. “He is not for babies!” She turns to her mother. “I am not a baby and I love Peter Pan! Right, Mommy, it isn’t for babies!?”

“Right, honey. Peter Pan is not just for babies.” She narrows her eyes in focus as she wets the end of the thread in her mouth. “Everett, sweetheart, you’re going to be Peter Pan. It is too late to change your mind.”

Defiantly, the six-year-old crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “Then I’m not going. If I have to be Peter Pan, I’m skipping Halloween.”

She sighs exasperatedly and nods to her daughter. “Kate, honey, go see who’s at the door, please. Remember to ask who it is.” The five-year-old skips off to the front door in her socks, skidding across the dark wooden floors, and her mother is able to turn her attention toward the boy. “Don’t be ridiculous, Everett, you aren’t skipping Halloween. There is nothing babyish about Peter Pan.”

“I won’t be Peter Pan! I _won’t_!” he cries, throwing himself onto the floor beside the kitchen table and beginning to cry dramatically in hopes that his mother will cave.

“Everett Michael, we aren’t doing this right now.”

Kate swings open the door and a burst of cold fall air sweeps in.

“I _won’t_ be Peter Pan! I’m not going to Halloween this year!”

“If you want to be treated like a baby, you can go take a nap with John right now.” His mother is not having it today. The thread won’t go through the eye of the needle no matter how hard she tries, Halloween is only a few days away, and she’s been both Mommy and Daddy for a few too many weeks now.

“Moommm-yyyy, it’s Aunt Lauren!” Kate sing-songs, dancing in circles by the front door. “Can I let her in?”

“Yes, Kate, and for God’s sake close the door! You’re letting all the heat out.” She forcefully jabs the thread at the eye of the needle and lets out a triumphant breath as it goes through. The front door closes with a slam, and she closes her eyes and clenches her teeth to keep from snapping at her daughter again. “Kate, baby, we’ve talked about this. You have to close the door gently.”

From the entryway, one of her very best friends and favorite coworker, Lauren, stands with a sympathetic smile on her face and a brown paper sack in her arms. She’s dressed warmly in a navy blue pea coat, a tan wool scarf, jeans, and boots, and it’s clear that she’s come from work. They always get off early on Thursdays so their boss can go join happy hour in downtown Boston with his golf buddies. Kate has hold of her free hand and is trying to pull her toward the baby grand piano so she can play her a choppy version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Everett remains on the floor in a sobbing heap, playing up the theatrics to the best of his ability.

“Is now a bad time?” Lauren asks over the noise of the young children.

Kelley O’Hara shakes her head and stares straight at the work before her, now having to talk over the sound of the chattering teeth of her sewing machine as well as her children. “No, it’s as good as any other. This is our normal.”

She finishes the seam she’s been working on and stands up, stepping over her son on her way to give her friend a hug.

“Kate, sweetie, Aunt Lauren will listen to you play piano in a minute. Why don’t you go put up those clothes we folded earlier and help Mommy out a little bit? We can start on dinner in just a little while.” Her daughter nods brightly and twirls toward her bedroom, still slipping in her socks. Lauren tilts her head as if to say, _bad day?_ “You have no idea,” Kelley answers to the unasked question.

“What’s our meltdown over?” Lauren wonders, nodding toward Everett as she sets the paper bag on the marble countertop, brushing a few bills and finger-painted pictures out of the way in the process.

Kelley washes her hands and motions for Lauren to sit down at the kitchen island. “He’s skipping Halloween because he changed his mind and doesn’t want to be Peter Pan.” She watches her son continue to weep on the floor as she pours two mugs of hot apple cider.

“Why not Peter Pan? Peter Pan is freaking awesome,” Lauren says, pointedly nudging Everett with one of her long legs as she sits.

“He’s for _babies!_ I want to be Daddy for Halloween!” Everett yells, his voice shaking with sobs and muffled by the sleeve of his red sweater.

Lauren winces at the words and turns slowly to face Kelley again. She’s diverted her eyes to where her hands are wrapped firmly around the mug of steamy liquid, trying her best not to show how much she wishes Luke were here.

“Kell…I’m sorry. I wish…” Lauren sighs. “I wish he were here too. I can’t imagine how hard it must be. I don’t even have kids and I’m always stressed out when Jrue isn’t home. It’s gotta be so much harder when there are little ones involved.”

Kelley shrugs, trying to brush off the wave of emotion that always floods her when someone mentions Luke. “It’s fine. There’s nothing you can do,” she says shortly, and guilt hits her a beat later when she sees Lauren’s face fall. “I mean, nothing more you can do. You do a lot just by being here, by being my friend. Jrue, too. I know Luke would love that he’s so good to you and to us too.”

“We’re all family here, Kelley. You know that better than most of us. Let us take care of you some time. You can’t always be the one lifting others up.”

She nods, knowing her friend is right. When she was 20 years old, studying business at Boston College and in love with the light-haired, pretty-eyed boy she tutored in math, she’d had no clue what the next part of her life would look like. All she knew was that she loved Luke O’Hara who was so different from anyone else she’d ever dated and would take her life so far from the plan she’d always wanted. Luke was charming, witty, kind, and two years her elder. Not the best at business math, and certainly a terrible lab partner in math lab, but more skilled in picking up foreign languages and history than anyone at the school. He’d already served one tour of duty, this one on the frontlines of Iraq before they found bin Laden, and the stories he told Kelley made her heart hammer out of her chest in fear. What was worse than the fact that he actually _enjoyed_ putting himself in harm’s way for the sake of God and country was that he planned on doing it again, on making a career out of the army.

Lauren, along with the third member of their trio, Tobin Heath, had been there when Kelley found out she was pregnant just a few weeks into Luke’s second tour of duty. She was a few weeks shy of her 21st birthday, playing soccer on scholarship at Boston College, and planning on going to Harvard Law School. Lauren’s then-boyfriend (now husband) Jrue was deployed with Luke, and Tobin’s brother was there too. The girls had found comfort and community in one another since their freshman year, before Jrue and Lauren were officially a “thing” (other than “he’s tutoring me in biology” as Lauren shyly offered with flushed cheeks one day before they had soccer practice) and when Kelley thought Luke was just “a dumb and mildly attractive sack of bricks who wants to get in my pants.” Of course, Tobin was the only one of them who had gone on to play soccer professionally, and Kelley hadn’t played after their sophomore year, but the Three Musketeers were still the best of friends. Kelley would trust them with her life as well as those of her children.

“Hey, Everett, I have an idea,” Lauren says, breaking the silence as she spins on her stool to face the six-year-old. He lifts his head and a shock of blonde-brown hair falls in his eyes. “What if your mom were to save the Peter Pan costume for when John gets bigger, and you can go as Daddy for Halloween? I bet Uncle Jrue would help out,” she adds, casting a glance at Kelley so she knows this costume means no extra work for the exhausted mom.

Everett breaks into a wide grin, the grin she’s loved since he was just a baby, and nods emphatically. “You and Uncle Jrue will help me?” he asks excitedly, sticking his tongue through the gap where his two front teeth were until yesterday.

Lauren nods grandly, playing along with his excitement. “Oh, yeah, I bet he’d be so stoked to help you dress up like Daddy for Halloween.”

“I know someone else who could help,” a deep, almost shy voice says from behind them.

It’s only then that Kelley feels the chill that comes along with an open door and the swift breeze of someone behind her. She closes her eyes tight, sure that what she thinks is happening can’t actually happen even though she wants it more than anything else in the world. But then Lauren’s jaw is dropped, Everett is past her in a flash, and Kate has reappeared with John, who’s nearly two, and her eyes are lit up like it’s Christmas morning.

_“Daddy!!!”_ she hears from behind her, and she’s seconds away from passing out.

“Luke!” Lauren’s voice exclaims surprisedly, and Kelley thinks she moves from the barstool to squeeze her good friend in a hug. (She’s not entirely sure. She’s losing the ability to see clearly and process information.) “I can’t believe — Jrue said — you weren’t — oh wow, you’re home!”

Kate and John both fly past Kelley as well, straight into the arms of their daddy. One can’t hear over the excited chatter of the three children who haven’t hugged him in half a year. John is mumbling something that can’t be translated as he distractedly pulls at the pins on the collar of Luke’s fatigues. Everett is yelling about first grade and his soccer team and Uncle Jrue teaching him to skateboard last month. Kate is already trying to pull him toward her room to play dress up again — it’s been since she was four that they’ve had a tea party. Luke has stars in his tired eyes, like the whole world is back in his arms and he hasn’t been this happy in forever.

Lauren motions to Kelley that she’s seeing herself out, and that’s when Kelley is able to fully take in the sight before her eyes. Her husband is home, a full three weeks early, and squatted down in their living room with their three babies in his arms. His Army-issued duffle bag has been abandoned on the floor, and at some point his patrol cap was knocked off his head and has fallen onto the back of the couch. His jaw is stubbled, like he hasn’t shaved in a day or two, and Kate is lovingly stroking his beard. ( _Mommy loves it when you don’t shave, right Daddy?_ she says to him as her small hands pat his face. _She says you look like Everett when you’re clean shaven_.) She doesn’t notice the tears rolling down her face until he stands and swipes them away with the pad of his thumb, rough and calloused but the most tender touch she’s ever felt.

“Were you ever goin’ to say hi,” he asks in that slight drawl he keeps from his roots back in South Carolina, “or have you forgotten who I am?”

She doesn’t answer, just presses her lips to his chapped ones and clutches the front of his shirt like he’s going to be taken from her if she ever lets go. It’s been months since she last tasted his minty breath and felt his soft lips, relaxed in the warmth of his arms wrapped around her small body. He’s the one who deepens the kiss, and she is taken by how — after eight years with him — he still makes her heart beat faster and her body ache with want. She pulls away first, knowing her eyes are dark and her lips are red, and flushes pink. He makes her feel 19 again, young and in love and innocent and shy about what his touch does to her body. This time, though, she’s surprised to see how dark his eyes are too.

“Hey, you,” she manages to husk out.

“Daddy.”

Kate’s impatient voice breaks them out of their love spell. She’s tugging at his arm.

“Daddy. Come play dress up with me.”

With that, Kelley’s heart falls, knowing her husband will do what he always does and sacrifice to spend time with his kids when all she wants is to take him to bed. Instead, he bends down to his daughter’s height, Kelley’s fingers still intertwined with his, and smiles. “Actually, honey, this is about to be Mommy and Daddy time. We can play dress up after I make waffles in the morning.”

She slows her heart rate enough to pick up her phone to text Lauren with shaky hands, and laughs when she sees that her best friend has beat her to it.

_Jrue and I will be by to get the kids in ten. Overnight bags ready. Have fun tonight lil momma ;)_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_One Week Earlier._

When people ask Hope Solo what it’s like, being a trauma surgeon in the United States Army, she always tells them the exact same thing.

It’s windy.

Dirty.

Rewarding.

Hot, hotter than hell.

It’s what she was born to do.

She tells the story quite often so she doesn’t forget that there’s a lot to be uncertain about in Hope Solo’s life. Her parents have been divorced since she was five. She lived in a bad part of New York, near Coney Island, and the sounds of gunfire were normal after dark. There were days she didn’t know where her next meal was coming from. Nobody really expected her to go to college. Her dad was doing drugs and her mom was drinking herself to death, and her brother joined the Marines the day he turned 18 without looking back. She decided to follow in his footsteps. Boot camp. Basic training. Tests, lots of them. Structure and discipline that she had never had before. One week into her first tour of duty, her Humvee was hit by an RPG, and Hope sustained a ruptured ear drum as well as a TBI, and so ended Hope Solo’s time as a soldier in the U.S. Army. Depressed and stricken with PTSD, she’d started drinking herself into a permanently medicated state just like her mother.

She was only 19 years old when she decided to go to college on her GI Bill. For a while, she lived in her car and ate meals that she could get for free. She slept in the library a lot when it got colder and checked out her textbooks to study. She worked nearly thirty hours a week while taking sixteen hours of classes to earn enough money to pay rent in the apartment she could finally afford. And at some point, she decided that she wanted to be a doctor, and not just a doctor at that — a surgeon. She graduated from NYU in May when she was only 21 years old — two years after she started — with a Bachelors of Science in Biology with a minor in Arabic and was at Stanford by the beginning of July to start medical school. She quickly worked her way up through classes, never making much time for people outside of her study circle, and completed her residency at Johns Hopkins in Boston before applying to work as a surgeon in the U.S. Armed Forces. She fell in love her first day on the job and hasn’t looked back since.

Each day is dreadfully similar to the one before — hot, terribly so, and always dry. As a higher-ranking officer, she has a trailer to live in that she shares with one other female soldier, the lieutenant colonel on base. There’s running water and even wifi, slow as it may be. Her morning routine doesn’t take long — shower, brush her teeth, put on her Army Combat Uniform, and slick her hair into the same bun she’s worn for the past seven years before slipping on her patrol cap and heading out the door to a blast of sandy, hot air. Some days the Aid Station is busier than others, particularly after sand storms when aircraft can’t fly out of Bagram, and everything is dreadfully the same. Tents are tan. The horizon is tan. The trailers are tan. It’s all tan. And Hope loves it. She loves it more than she put into words.

There are parts she doesn’t tell anyone, of course, like how hard it is to lose a soldier, or how it gets terribly lonely, or how — to deal with the constant loneliness — she often finds herself in someone else’s bed, beneath someone else’s husband or wife, hoping to feel a little less alone than before. She won’t tell them that it’s the least glamorous job in the world, that she never stops sweating or reeking of death or that there is blood permanently on the soles of her regulation combat boots. Because, for the most part, she loves those not-so-pretty pieces too. You can’t enjoy the good without the bad, she supposes.

The day she loses her best friend is no different from any other.

She wakes up early, five minutes before her alarm is to go off, after a long night in bed with an Air Force pilot who’s made a “pit stop” at Bagram on her way to a top-secret mission elsewhere, probably Syria or Iran if Hope’s guessing right. The shower is cold as always, and it wakes her up and soothes her tired bones. _Tired._ If there was one word to describe her job, that would be it: tired. Always, always tired. She’s out her door by 7:30 and in the dining facility five minutes later, sitting down to a lukewarm plate of eggs and bacon and breakfast potatoes. And per usual, there’s a crew of four men who flock over to her table and sit down around her, ready to tease her and give her hell for who she slept with the night before. She pretends to be mad and tells them to fuck off.

She’ll never tell them, but she loves it.

She faced the facts a long time ago — she’s a woman in a man’s world. The guys around her are good ones, big-hearted and loyal and passionate and dedicated and brave. They’re like her brothers by now, on their third tour of duty together, and they’d lay down their lives for her. She’s convinced she’d do the same. But they’ve never treated her like anything but one of them, never lessened their cursing around her or apologized for using foul language around a lady. They’ve never made their teasing less harsh for her sake, never relented when they run together or lift together or have push-up contests. She’s fairly certain that they don’t even think of her as a lady but as one of their bros who happens to have a vagina. _And she loves it._ She wouldn’t trade these guys for the world. They’re her family by now.

Luke O’Hara all but drops his tray onto the table beside her, making her jump five feet in the air, and Jeff Heath is not far behind, cracking up like Luke has told the funniest joke of all time.

“Goooooddd mornin’ Doctah,” Jeff says in a thick fake accent as he noisily swings his chair out next to hers. “Saw that you went to bed with Mathieson last night.” He pauses to shovel in a fork full of eggs. “She’s got a nice ass.”

“Definitely a nine on the hot scale,” Luke agrees through a bite of potatoes, spraying Hope finely with almost-chewed debris as he speaks.

“Those potatoes better taste just fucking like your wife’s if you’re going to get them on my face,” she retorts icily, taking a napkin to her cheek. “Speaking of your wife, I saw you with Herst yesterday.”

Luke tenses up and shoves Hope’s arm harder than necessary. “Leave Kelley out of this, Hope. You know I’d never hurt her.”

“Aren’t you the one who said that what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Solo, so fuck off.” Luke shifts in his seat, his cheeks flushed pink. “It was a one-time thing fucking five years ago, Hope.”

Hope shrugs defensively. “I didn’t say anything about you doing it again, Luke. I’m only implying that I actually like Kelley and would prefer that you keep her around, so don’t do anything to fuck it up.”

Jeff, ever the enthusiast, attempts to lighten the mood. “He’s only mad because you get more pussy than he does, Solo.”

“I hear that word leave your mouth again and you’re never gonna walk straight again, Heath.”

“Ma’am yes ma’am.” He mock-salutes and clears his tray away. “Mission brief in fifteen, O’Hara.”

They watch Jeff stalk off to catch up with a pretty officer, jogging after her and tossing up a lazy salute in a typical Jeff Heath fashion. Hope has to smile.

“You know I love you guys, right?” she finally says, swallowing a drink of grape juice immediately after the words leave her mouth.

“Are you being nice to me for once?” Luke answers with mock incredibility in his voice, clutching at his chest like he can’t believe what’s happened. “Look at you, being nice to me! You had to take a drink to wash the words down, but you were nice to me. Let’s try that again sometime, Solo, I think I like it.”

“I’m serious, Luke. You and Jeff and the other guys, you’re my people. And I’m thankful for you.”

Jeff turns from where he’s talking to the officer and mouths HELL YEAH! as he points to her rear end.

“Even if you guys are obnoxious, rowdy little horn dogs most of the time,” she adds.

That’s the last time she sees Jeff Heath.

He’s killed in action as he patrols a city that morning, playing catch with young Afghani children.

Sometimes, Hope Solo really hates her job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s not what you thought! Or maybe it is. Maybe you had me all figured out. It may seem like a slow burn right now, but the slow burn has to happen for this story to develop. Is making Kelley married with kids too much of a “Krolo” thing to do? because Krolo was a life-ruiner. Also, I’m taking liberty with the friendships here. Thanks for sticking with me! I’m really, really loving writing this one for you guys (and for myself not gonna lie.)


	3. temporary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to clarify confusion, the soldier who died in Chapter 1 and left behind his three children served the purpose of showing how real this is to Kelley…how much her husband is risking each time he gets onto a plane…what they could all lose. He’s not Jeff or anyone else that Luke knew, but more of an allusion or a sign of things that could be yet to come.

_“Dr. Solo, you’re going home.”_

She boards the Boeing C-17 Globemaster III with only a compact Army duffel bag in tow, dressed in plainclothes for the first time in recent memory. She’s lost weight since she last wore these jeans, she can tell, and the leather lace-up boots she’s wearing feel stiff and hard, unlike her well-worn and broken-in combat boots. Beneath her tan leather motorcycle jacket is a simple black tee, one that had been fitted when she’d bought it before heading to Afghanistan six months ago but that now hangs off her. It feels foreign to not have her hair in a bun, to not have a flak vest on as she boards because she’s not flying as part of a med-evac team. In fact, there’s not much about this that is familiar. If she had it her way, she would be staying.

_You’re going home._

The cabin of the aircraft is massive, typically used for transporting hundreds of soldiers at a time but today only carrying a few. Hope chooses a seat far away from the others, near the back of the plane, and buckles her harness across her chest and waist. Two other men are flying back stateside with her, and they quietly and dutifully take seats opposite each other at the front of the plane, knowing that this trip is a silent one. With nothing but their eyes and their hearts, each of the passengers silently acknowledge the flag-draped coffin secured in the middle of the aircraft. Hope avoids looking at it all together. Every time the corner of her eye catches the stars and stripes, it only serves as a painful reminder of why she’s on this plane, of why she’s going home.

_“Dr. Solo, how’s home sound?”_

_Hope looks up abruptly from where she’s stitching up the cut above Private Wesley’s eye and offers a dry laugh. “Like hell.”_

_Her commanding officer stands at the entrance to the tent, hanging back respectfully and slightly uncomfortably. “Solo, you’ve gotta work with me,” he sighs, and she rolls her eyes. “You’ve been here for a long time. You know how this works.”_

_“And you’ve known me for a long time, Jim,” she answers, gently placing a butterfly bandage over the stitches to help protect it from the dust and debris of Afghanistan. “You know how I feel about being stateside. I need to be here, working and saving lives and with my men.”_

_A long, heavy silence settles over the aid station as Hope scribbles something on a notepad for her patient. She’s had her mind made up about her life for as long as her C.O. has known her, and she’s more sure of it than anyone he’s ever seen. Cocky, maybe; unattached, to-the-point, direct — but the best damn surgeon this army has. He watches in the painful quiet as Private Wesley listens to her instructions before taking the prescription and heading out of the aid station with a sharp salute to his superior._

_“Look, Jim — this is home,” she says mildly as she throws away her latex gloves and jots a few things down on her clipboard. “You know I love it here. This is my sanctuary, my safe place. I’d tell you if I started to get burned out or if I needed a break.”_

_When he doesn’t answer, only sinking tiredly into a chair near the opening of the tent, an uneasiness settles in her stomach. She clasps her clipboard to her chest and crosses her arms, her brow furrowed as she stares at him with confusion and concern._

_“Hope…” he begins, and she feels her strength begin to crack. He’s never called her by her first name before. “It’s Jeff Heath,” he finishes with a look of helplessness still written across his face, like he doesn’t know what else to do. “Jeff Heath was killed two hours ago.”_

She told herself long before this was her job — before she’d enlisted, even; before medical school and what would have been a tour of duty and before college — that she wouldn’t allow herself to get attached to people. There were a multitude of reasons at the time (they’re unreliable, they’re all selfish at the root of it all, they’re hard to read, they’re all so good at pretending) but now she can think of only one: they’re temporary. Because, while some of them may be those other things, unreliable and selfish and difficult and fake, she can only think of one solid reason as she stares at the flag draped neatly over the coffin that holds one of the best friends she’s ever had.

Human beings are so temporary. They all have expiration dates, as her father once said, and without warning, they can be gone.

So she’d told herself that she wouldn’t get attached. She’d be open enough that others thought they knew her, that they could call her a friend, that they could enjoy a beer together after a long day. She would listen to what they had to say, but she wouldn’t actually hear them. She’d keep them an arm’s length away all the time. She’d never have to be vulnerable, never have to bare her heart to anyone who had the power to rip it away from her. And for a long time, it had worked. Hope had friends, but no one really knew her. She was a mystery. There wasn’t a soul whose departure she was crushed by — the job was hard enough on its own, she didn’t need emotions to cloud her mind even more — or whose presence made her come alive. It had worked.

And then she’d met them — Jeff Heath, Luke O’Hara, and Jrue Holiday.

The Terrible Trio. The Three Musketeers. Hell. They were the best of friends, in a “bromance” as Jeff put it often, and Hope had never before seen such devotion, service, and brotherhood in her life. It became clear to her that these men were so much more than just friends. Their bond went far deeper than a few common interests, than grilling out on a Saturday night or enjoying a beer together on the back porch or playing video games together. It was as if their blood ran together, as if their hearts were made up of the very same things — of love and bravery and sacrifice and selflessness. They did everything together — so much that she thought they’d for sure die together. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.

And she’d fallen for it.

She had been intrigued by what they shared. She’d been enamored with the way they treated each other, how much love they had for one another, how willing to serve one another they were. And, without realizing how much she had been craving exactly this — this friendship, this openness, this loyalty and honor and trust and sense of duty toward one another — she had fallen for it. She’d allowed herself to become vulnerable, to start to view them as she had her own brother, as a symbol of everything good in the world. She’d started to find in them what she had always wished for herself, that humility and heart and courage and strength she’d never had. And more than allowing herself to let them into her heart, she’d let herself be welcomed into _their_ hearts as well.

And now? Now she again is reminded of why she’d made that promise years and years ago; why she had decided to never let herself have that deep connection with anyone.

People are temporary.

_“He…he can’t be dead.”_

_She tries to hide the horror and pain that’s twisting through her body, threatening to take over if she so allows. Deep breaths in and out, closed eyes, focusing on something happy — just like the military had taught her when she was 18 years old. But the room won’t stop spinning, her heart won’t stop racing, eyes won’t stop blurring._

_“I saw Jeff Heath just three hours ago. He was eating breakfast and making inappropriate comments and…and he was alive. He can’t be dead because…because…” And then she can’t breathe, can’t stand, can’t move._

_Major Jim Hartford stands from his chair and moves to touch her comfortingly on the arm; she rips it away violently, her eyes wide and watering._

_“Hope…I’m sorry. I really am. He was shot on patrol; there was nothing they could do — nothing anyone could do, and he —”_

_“Don’t you dare!” she yells, and her voice is louder than she means for it to be. “Don’t you dare say there was nothing anyone could do! Because if you’d brought him back here — if they had just had the sense to fucking wait for a bird to come get them — I could have tried. I could have done all that was in my power to save Jeff Heath! But — but…” She’s so angry she’s all but spitting. “But they couldn’t even do that! They let him die, Jim — they let him DIE on a battlefield when they KNEW I was only a ten-minute chopper ride away! They let him die!”_

_“Hope. Nobody let him die, it was —”_

_“NO! He was shot, and they…” She draws a shaky breath, trying to stop the picture running through her head. “They watched him die, Jim.” Her words are almost a whisper now, as if someone has taken the breath from her lungs. “They saw him get shot, and then they watched him die.”_

_“He was a damn good soldier,” he says softly, and with the affection a father has for his daughter, squeezes her shoulder. “And an even better man.” There’s a brief pause as he waits for her to recompose herself. “His family hasn’t been notified. I know there’s a mother, a girlfriend, a sister…is there anyone else who should know?”_

_Hope shakes her head, still in a numbed state. “I think that’s it. His mom…his mom…” She chokes back a sob. “She’s only got one kid left now.”_

_“One last thing, and then we’re done.” He looks her straight in the eye and she dares to return his stare, steeling herself against her emotion and reminding herself that she doesn’t do this — she doesn’t cry when soldiers are killed. “I want you and O’Hara to accompany his…” He clears his throat. “I want you and O’Hara to go home for this, for the funeral, for his family. Come back after Christmas, finish out the tour, figure out what your next step is. Dr. Solo, you’re going home.”_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

It’s almost an afterthought.

Like it wasn’t important until they’re tangled beneath the sheets and wrapped up in each other, skin on skin, and the darkness makes it impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends.

Like it didn’t matter until she’s breathless over him, her hair a honey-brown halo curling damply around her face, and he can trace the smattering of freckles on her shoulders in the silvery moonlight.

Like it could be forgotten until only her heavy breaths fill the air, her small whimpers and gasps and shudders sharp in the silence of their otherwise-empty apartment.

Like it wasn’t real until he’d relearned the scent of her skin, until he’d memorized the slope where her jaw meets her throat that makes her shiver each time he’d ghosted his lips over it, until he’d remembered the way her muscles tense and recoil and shake.

“Jeff’s dead.”

It’s a mumble, so low she almost doesn’t catch it, so void of any emotion that she almost doesn’t believe him. But she turns around to face him, fighting against the tangled sheets and his strong arms, and her stomach drops.

He’s telling the truth.

“What do you mean, Jeff’s dead?” she whispers back, the tears in her round eyes already spilling over. “He can’t be dead. Tobin’s gonna — he was — I…” She swallows hard. “He promised. He swore he’d make it back.”

“He got shot.” Luke’s voice is cracking, and though he’s staring at the ceiling now she knows he’s breaking. “He was playing catch with some kids and then he was just down, Kell. He was just _dead_ and there wasn’t a single fucking thing I could do about it.”

Kelley doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

“He was my fucking best friend,” he says in a high-pitched tone, and then he’s weeping into her bare shoulder. “He was my best friend and I watched him die, Kelley. I watched him take his last breath and then he…” He can’t speak over the lump in his throat any more.

She holds him. Strokes his back. Presses kisses to his forehead. Waits for seconds. Minutes. Hours, it seems.

And then:

“I’m done.”

She pulls back from their embrace in surprise. “What do you mean, you’re done? With us? With me? You’ve got to give me more than that. I don’t understand.”

“I’m done. With…with the Army. With this whole fucking thing, Kelley. I can’t keep watching my buddies die.”

“Luke, I think you should think…”

“I did. I had a whole fucking international flight to ‘think’ about it. And I’m done. This is it. I’ll finish out my last three weeks, but I’m done.”

And then, silence.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited for where this one is going. I hope you all like it! Also, you had to see it coming so don't kill me for what I did. (Not real.) (This may not be what you think it is.)


End file.
